


Barad Halatir.

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion.
Genre: Elf meets Mortal., Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 22:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13040847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Angrod meets a member of the House of Bëor.





	Barad Halatir.

 

Barad Halatir.

 

  
“The present life of man upon earth, O King, seems to me in  
comparison with that time which is unknown to us like the  
swift flight of a sparrow through mead-hall where you sit  
at supper in winter, with your Ealdormen and thanes,  
while the fire blazes in the midst and the hall is warmed,  
but the wintry storms of rain or snow are raging abroad.  
The sparrow, flying in at one door and immediately out  
at another, whilst he is within, is safe from the wintry  
tempest, but after a short space of fair weather, he im-  
mediately vanishes out of your sight, passing from winter  
to winter again. So this life of man appears for a  
little while, but of what is to follow or what went before  
we know nothing at all.”

Bede. 

 

 

 

  
   It took them most of the first year to find a suitable site to build. The Fen of Serech had been green, but not fresh, and all had known that wherever they settled, it must be several leagues removed from the stagnation. They had let the horses run, and clung on, laughing and whooping, intoxicated with freedom, with the vastness of the grassy plain, with the untethered wind. It had taken an effort to remember that the Enemy yet lived, two days ride to the North. The mountain peaks of Thangorodrim itself were there on the edge of sight, on the edge of the sky, when at times the cloud and fume parted.

Thangorodrim...

  
   But they were young, and strong, the Helcaraxë had forged bonds between them all, closer than brotherhood; and the rising of the Sun, now returning to full strength for the eighth time, had inspired such hope and joy in them that they could have laughed in the face of Morgoth himself. Each of them, secretly, had envisioned themselves as Fëanor, insulting Morgoth and slamming a door in his face. But deep in their spirits, the knowledge that the Valar had shared with them, "dwell in Death's shadow...slain ye shall be..." lingered, and there in the North was death, slayer of the first of the Eldar, the first of many.

 

   Angrod sat by the stream, his sketch forgotten beside him, watching the kingfisher. It had struck again, and with a swift blow, stunned the tiny fish, then jerked it upright and swallowed it whole. Angrod grinned to himself; that was the way to eat, no fuss, no mess...    He too was hungry, it had been a long day, but even the surveyors were finally happy, and the site had been chosen. On this very shelf of the green foothills, by this very stream, they would build their fortress, and stand watch over the plains of Ard-galen. The kingfisher turned its head, the sunlight gleamed on the tiny dark eye, and Angrod laughed, and leaped to his feet. The bird flashed its dazzling wings and flew into the hole in the low, overgrown bank of the wandering stream.  
   Angrod watched for a moment to see if it would return to its post, then decided it was feeding its young, and hoped he would get the chance to watch the little ones fledge, in their first timid, frenzied flight and to see them take their first look at the immensity and brightness of the world.  
  
   An aide had appeared at his side; standing orders were that Angrod liked to study the small creatures in silence, so that any approach to him must be conducted with the discretion of a scout. The aide, who had ridden with Finrod in his youth, had been confident, and he was rewarded with a smile from Angrod.

  
   "Did you see him ? I believe he has a nest under that small hazel. I hope we do not disturb him with our noise."  
   The aide, who had been chosen for other skills than diplomacy, gaped at Angrod. They were drawing up the plans for a fortress; he glanced down at the stream, and back at Angrod, wondering if the wits of his lord had been affected... How could Angrod not realize...  
   "Look !" cried Angrod, as the bird darted out to a different, higher twig. It watched the motionless Elves for a moment, then turned back to the more important business. It sat, still as the Elves, watching the water, head on one side, then dropped like an arrowhead into the rippling flow. Instantly, it seemed, it was flying back up to its perch, a sparkling scatter of silvery drops of water shone in the air, then set new ripples spreading as they splashed back into the hurrying stream.  
   The aide smiled, it was a beautiful bird, and a skillful fisher, he turned to look at Angrod and was dazzled by the smile.  
   "We must be sure not to disturb him !" said Angrod, and the aide, swept up in the enthusiasm of the beautiful child of Finarfin, could only murmur agreement.  
"Barad Halatir." said Angrod, calmly, "We shall name our fortress after him."

  
******

  
   To celebrate the passing of four hundred years since the founding of Barad Halatir, Angrod had issued an open invitation, inspired by the memory of Mereth Aderthad. But the world was changed, the Fens of Serech spreading from the South, and the Shadow louring in the North, had made Ard-galen more remote, or so it seemed, for few even of his own siblings came to raise a glass with Angrod. He stood by the large window, with the view out over the plain. In the grassy courtyard, undisturbed, a new kingfisher hunted from a new hazel, but these were the childrens children of the first, after whom the fortress had been named, and around whose stream it had been built.

   But Finrod had come, and with him another of his Mortal friends. This one seemed familiar to Angrod, the golden-brown hair and eyes, and the scarcely paler skin, surely...  
   "Are you Baran ?" he asked the surprised Mortal.  
   Finrod had laughed "Angrod, you are losing your wits in this remote outpost, cut off from the rest of Elvendom. Baran was his great-great-grandfather and has been dead now for a dozen years. However, my friend here has been named in honour of his mighty ancestor, so the answer to your question is both yes, and no."  
   Angrod blushed, and bowed, hand on heart, to the smiling Baran.  
   "Forgive my thoughtlessness, I intended no insult. Indeed, I know little of Mortals,  
and you are the first of your kind to honour us with a visit."  
   "The honour is mine, my lord. But I would ask, if you please, how you came to be called 'iron fist' ?" the Mortal blushed slightly and glanced briefly at Finrod "Indeed, I asked this question of the king, but he said... he told me that I must ask you myself."  
   Angrod smiled kindly at the discomfited Mortal, then turned to Finrod, who was bowing and retreating with a mischievous smile. Angrod laughed and shook his head, then turned back to the smiling Baran.

   "I will tell you, then, myself. Finrod knows the story well, he was there when..." Angrod sighed briefly, his eyes blinded to the moment, seeing back across the ice, through the darkness, into the Light. Finwë had been there, even Fëanor, the whole family; with grandmother Indis the Hunter smiling joyfully, but watching the children and grandchildren with attentive eyes.  
   "I broke a table, like this." He made a fist and brought it down swiftly, so swiftly that a tiny flicker of a flinch rippled across the Mortal. Angrod narrowed his eyes briefly, his mind overflowing with speculation. Finrod, though widely loved, indeed adored, had few close friends, yet acted with this young Mortal as though they had been hunting together for centuries. That tightly-controlled flinch spoke to the warrior in Angrod of swiftness in battle, of deadly precision in the hunt.  
   The praise of Finrod, thought his brother, praise indeed... "But my cousin Fingon brought forth another table, cut from the same tree, and of the same shape and size. They were arguing, you see, over whether there was a flaw in the wood."  
   Baran laughed "Of course ! And you did it again, you broke the second table !"  
Angrod smiled fondly at his memories "Yes, but they did not stop arguing about the wood, though Fingon carried me around the room in triumph, while the others cheered. It was... we were very happy then."  
   Baran was silent as Angrod sipped his drink. Around them the celebration was becoming noisy, a complicated, vigorous dance had begun, and Angrod sighed and looked at Baran "I am curious to learn more of you, and your family. May I show you the gardens here ?"  
   Baran smiled delightedly "My lord, it would be an honour !"

 

   They had enclosed the whole shelf of the hill, building into the slope beneath the hem of the pines, and merely fortifying the outer rim. The gardens were sprawling, cultivated at the edges, but left otherwise to the hazels and to the kingfisher in his stream. They walked through the first of the wildflowers, into the shadow of the trees, where the lights from the many windows splintered into thin beams through rippling leaves. Baran hesitated but Angrod strode into the darkness, then paused and looked back.  
   "Forgive me, Mortal, I had forgotten that your eyes see differently to ours. Follow in my steps. There are no dangers, nor aught to trip the unwary save bushes. You shall hear the stream before you, or I, can see it."  
   The trees shielded them from the sounds of laughter and song as the walls of a house. Angrod, in his own garden, yet felt the thrill of a childhood escapade, and the urgency of the hunt, quickening his blood. He became keenly aware of the breathing of the Mortal, and knew that the Man thought himself silent, with his coarse, Mortal senses. Angrod listened to the swift thud of the Mortal heart; fast, but not wild, not erratic. The Man was calm.  
The soft melody of the stream began to reach his ears, he hurried forwards, but even as he moved, he heard the Mortal sniff the air.  
   "It is the stream. Can you smell it ?"  
   Baran nodded, aware that Elven eyes could see in this blackness, though he himself could scarce tell tree from sky above him. Then Angrod stepped out into an open glade, and the starlight filled the eyes, and the spirit, of the Mortal. They were silent, hearing the stream of the kingfisher and the whisper of the air in the hazel, bathing in the starlight.

   Angrod sighed happily, and said softly  
   "I have made many drawings and paintings of this stream. It would delight me to show you them, and hear your judgment."  
Baran laughed, but Angrod was surprised to hear the heartbeat of the Mortal shy like a startled horse, then beat with the urgency of one running. The air between them filled with a tense excitement. But Baran spoke swiftly, in a tone of humour faintly threaded with strong emotion  
   "Are you trying to seduce me, my lord ?"  
   Angrod knew that he himself should laugh and the moment would pass. But he could find no answer to the question, it could not be dismissed. The silence seemed to crush the breath from his body, his own heart had begun to keep pace with the hammering heart of the Mortal, the starlight seemed to pierce him like arrows. He questioned himself with the ruthless honesty that drove his obsessive studies and attention to detail in art, and the truth was beyond him, beyond even the terrible sharpness of the Valar, beyond knowledge.

   "I do not know" he said wonderingly "That was not my intention, when I brought you here. This is the place I love, I paint and draw here all the time. I brought you here..."  
   Baran, whose eyes had begun to perceive the sparkle of starlight on the ever-moving surface of the water, turned to the dark shadow of the Elf.  
   "Forgive me, my lord, I am young, even in the reckoning of my own people, and I have been much in the wild, learning to scout. My manners must seem crude to you."  
   "There is nothing to forgive. If you cannot jest with your host, then it is for your surly host to apologize. I... shall we return to the others ?" But he did not move, and they stood, in the quiet garden, creatures of the woods and the wild, measuring each other with strange senses.  
   Finally Angrod stirred himself, as one in a dream, and led the silent Baran back to the lights.

 

   Baran had always had admirers, even among the Eldar, and had fled to the woods and the wild as often as he could. Finrod, amused at so often finding the lovely young Mortal alone, far from home, had taken to teaching him the ways of the creatures and the signs of their passing. Though they did not care for each other, their beauty gave them comradeship, across the unimaginable abyss. A quiet, trustful friendship had grown between them, and Baran had been willing to follow Finrod even into this remote fortress, alone among a host of Elves, on the very edge of the world of light.  
   He had been raised in Nargothrond, his uncle Bregor was a king of the Edain, but Finrod the King, was lord of all. Baran knew of the strange powers of Elven senses, and had trained with them in the skills of mastery of breath and emotion that were considered an essential part of the raising of an Elf. But he could see no further than any other Mortal, his ears were no match for the sensitive Elves, and the knowledge that his heart sounded in their ears as the footsteps of his spirit, drove him to flee them as his vigourous young blood flamed through his body.

   It had taken all his courage to attend this Eldar feast; the weight of their terrible age crushed him, the lovely Angrod had mistaken him for his great-great-grandfather...

He felt more alone, in the bright throng, than ever in the wild, and more exposed than if he were truly naked.

   He had seen many likenesses of the House of Finwë, it was clear that Finrod favoured his grandmother, he had the delicate oval face of a Vanyar, whereas Angrod had the square jaw and heavy brow of his grandfather. Baran shuddered at the thought of the brooding eyes of Fëanor, who shared that brow, and of whom only one likeness could be found in all of Nargothrond. But while the beauty of Fëanor was clouded for all by the knowledge of what he had become, the beauty of Angrod was like the rising of the Moon for Baran, a light that transformed all around into a shining wonder. Baran fought to keep his heart steady, forced himself to smile, and struggled to keep from staring at the golden hair of Angrod, and the cool grey eyes, meeting his across the crowd in the unreadable face of the Elf.  
   Baran found his mind returning endlessly to the silence of the garden, to the starlight and the stream and the rustling trees, to the moment when they had seemed on the brink of a great dawning of light and joy, until the ice-cold horror of his own blundering made him clench his teeth, burning with embarrassment and desperately wishing he could have the chance to unsay his crass words. It was an effort to restrain himself from burying his face in his hands, every time, and it was many times a day, that the memory returned.  
   But still, the thought that Angrod could even imagine seducing Baran, could admit that he imagined it so vividly that it might have been his wish, set the flesh of Baran alight; he burned with more than embarrassment, he burned with desire. The impossible seemed so no more, the world was strange; and though Baran kept his eyes, and his distance, from Angrod, and the grey eyes of the Elf were calm even in laughter, yet they were there, and Baran knew that he was in the thought of even such a one as Angrod. For though they did not speak, there grew between them a harmony, as though the phrase of music they had begun in the garden echoed yet between them, a simple, insistent melody, and Baran thirsted, he craved and longed for more.

 

  
   The party continued for days, riding out from time to time to picnic in the sighing grasses, or gallop shrieking in sudden races, then return to feast and sing, or sit at the feet of a harpist weaving a long tale of lost Valinor. Angrod, with many guests to entertain, found himself swept into the revelry like a cut kite, with a terrible sense that he was still, in truth, in the dark garden by the quiet stream, with the Mortal close by. Baran himself was there, part of the whirlwind, smiling and laughing, surrounded by the curious, the scornful and the admiring, the first Mortal that most had ever met.  
   But Angrod watched, and knew when the golden-brown eyes were turned to his, and knew that the spell of the Mortal, the intense vigour of the Quick, had affected him like miruvor, and that if he did not escape soon, he would be trapped, besotted, enthralled.

   He sought out his brother.  
   "Finrod, will you ride with me ? I must have air. All this..." he waved a hand around helplessly; the once quiet fortress echoed with laughter, shouting and singing, music could be heard from three different directions, and several giggling Elves ran past them down the hall, trailing streamers and scattered petals. Finrod smiled and nodded.  
   "I shall meet you in the stables, for truly, a rest would improve your complexion."  
Angrod raised his brows and feinted a punch, Finrod laughed and closed his door.

   Angrod found a cold lunch, and with the pack slung on one shoulder, he took the steps two at a time, singing merrily in the haze of early sunshine. The courtyard was empty, save for a fallen garland. He strode across the flagstones, hearing the stamp and rustle of horses in straw, and their slow steady pulse. Finrod glowed like a fallen star in the dim stable, and beside him stood a familiar shadow. Baran breathed softly, but the beating of the heart of the Mortal was swift, and Angrod found his breath stopped in his throat as Finrod came forwards with a smile and said cheerfully  
   "You do not mind if Baran rides with us, do you ? After all, he is an outsider and can form no part of your troubles. I trust him, you may confide in him as you would in me."  
Baran stepped into the light, his eyes level, his face calm, but Angrod, listening to his heart, knew that for Baran too, the dark garden was more than a memory. Finrod looked at Baran with his head on one side.  
   "What is this ?" he asked Baran "You have never shown fear before, indeed, I have wondered if you even felt fear. But is it Angrod you fear ?"  
   Angrod watched, still as a reptile, as the Mortal flushed, but held himself still and turned his level eyes to Angrod. They froze, their eyes locked together, their heartbeats racing like paired horses, all thought scattered, the artist in Angrod watching the Mortal in utter fascination, absorbed in the detail, the swing of the thick, straight hair, the smooth planes of cheek and jaw, the gleaming golden-brown eyes, sunlight bathing them, flowing within them as the flickering beams flowed through the kingfisher's stream. The Mortal parted his lips slightly, as though to speak, but did not move. The silence grew, Angrod became aware of his brother, watching in surprise, turning to astonishment.

  
   But still he could not speak, nor move. It was too strange; the Mortal was an altogether different kind of being, many among the Eldar saw them as... as animals. But this was no animal, or if he were, then the Eldar also were animals, blood and bone, whose hearts moved within them, made of muscle and sinew, not spirits of the air. They were alive, made flesh, embodied and embedded in Arda, here to live, not to sing hopeless laments.  
   His courage returned. He straightened his back and raised his chin, then smiled openly at Baran, and found his heart burst like a great firework as Baran smiled joyfully back. The sunlight seemed to intensify, the matter of the world to dissolve, and the spirit of the Elf, nebulous as nacre, cloudy as starlight, vast as galaxies and fragile as cobweb, confronted the bright flame of the Mortal, and felt love.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
